


Perchance

by notlucy



Series: The Brownstone in Brooklyn [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Play, Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Bubble Bath, Caretaking, Daddy!Steve, Domestic Fluff, Insomnia, Little!Bucky - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Age Play, Oral Fixation, Peggy Carter is Mary Poppins, Playing Pretend, Snacks & Snack Food, Tears, True Love, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, bottle feeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 17:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12325188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Bucky hasn't been sleeping well. Steve wants to help, so he tries something a bit different. Feelings ensue.





	Perchance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crockzilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crockzilla/gifts).



Bucky was usually four when he was Little. Sometimes, if he was in a new situation, or he felt that he needed to be especially protective or brave, he’d be six or seven. But mostly four. An old four, almost _five,_ he insisted when he was tough. A young four, shyer and clingier when he wasn’t very tough at all.

Steve liked all the versions of Bucky’s Little-self, but he had to admit he had a soft spot for Bucky’s youngest incarnation. It was where he’d gone late that afternoon, aging down somewhere between when Steve had fallen asleep on the couch, and when he woke up an hour later. Peggy was out of town, and Bucky had been a little withdrawn all day, missing her, so it wasn’t any surprise Steve woke to find himself being watched, Bucky absently stroking his face with light touches. His hair, which had been in a ponytail most of the day, now fell around his face, obscuring him somewhat. Shy, then. That was fine with Steve.

“Pal?” He offered, testing the waters.

“Hi, Daddy,” Bucky replied, his voice distinctly Little. He looked pleased to see Steve awake, his expression brightening considerably.

“Hi,” he echoed, “were you waiting for me to wake up?”

Shrugging, Bucky pushed a finger into Steve’s cheek, just to make himself smile, before pulling his hand back. “Yup. I’m tired of your nap.”

“That’s fine,” Steve shrugged. “I’m tired of my nap, too. You want to do something else?”

Bucky considered, and Steve wondered if maybe he ought to give him a more structured choice. He’d been better about making bigger decisions for himself, but it depended on the day and the circumstance. Steve watched as he twisted a lock of hair around his finger, tugging on it lightly while he thought through things.

“Play a game?” There it was - an actual choice, couched in a question.

“Sure, Buck,” he replied, sitting up a little bit. “A board game or a pretend game?”

More consideration, Bucky watching him closely. “Pretend game. I want to do robot glamazons.”

Robot glamazons were fairly new in the rotation of games, and Steve wasn’t sure of their exact origin. The characters had shown up after one of Bucky’s afternoons with Natasha. The game mostly involved Transformers and Barbies fighting against the evil forces of Strawberry Shortcake and a vintage Ken doll that had lost both its legs before they’d found it at the Goodwill.

Sometimes, Bucky was vocal when he played, narrating his stories out loud. That day, though, he stuck close to Steve, keeping some part of their bodies touching at all times, even as they crawled around on the floor. He obviously had a game plan, manipulating the toys, occasionally putting them in peril, eventually wedging the evil Ken upside down between the couch cushions.

“Glamazon prison,” he explained, at Steve’s curious look. “For ten million years.”

“Wow,” Steve said, reaching up to rub the back of Bucky’s neck lightly. “That’s a long time. What did he do?”

Bucky shrugged, twisting away from the contact, though Steve didn’t miss the way his hand snaked out to wrap around Steve’s ankle instead. “He’s a bad guy,” he said. “He hurt people. Ten million years.”

“Sure, pal.” And there definitely wasn’t any sort of pang in Steve’s heart over that explanation. “What about Strawberry Shortcake?” The doll smelled atrocious, in Steve’s opinion, but Bucky was very intent on her being another villain in the story. And he loved her, too, in the way he loved all his toys.

“They didn’t catch her yet,” Bucky replied, sticking his tongue between his teeth as he went to pick up one of the Barbies. “Hold Dr. Romanova, Daddy.” Steve hadn’t heard the name of the red-headed doll before, and he had to give Nat some credit for getting herself into the story.

The other thing about Bucky when he was Little was that he didn’t have the longest attention span in the world. It was sort of the opposite of Big Bucky, who could focus on a task for hours - it was what had made him such a good sniper. Steve supposed the frantic jumping from activity to activity when he was small, then, was another coping mechanism. So it didn’t come as a huge surprise when, soon after passing Steve the doctor Barbie, he grew restless with his game.

“Hey,” Steve said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You hungry? We could make a snack.”

Bucky nodded, looking relieved at being given some direction. Steve smiled, kissing Bucky’s forehead before clambering to his feet. “You clean up your toys and we’ll make something together, okay?”

The kid was agreeable, Steve would give him that. Steve headed into the kitchen, where he looked at what they had in the fridge and considered what was possible with his lack of finesse in the culinary arts. He had an artist’s mindset - surely there was something he could think of. By the time Bucky arrived, he had a tube of chocolate chip cookie dough out on the counter, as well as jars of peanut butter and jelly. And there was whipped cream in the fridge, plus ice cream in the freezer. Giving an actual child that much sugar was a recipe for disaster. Giving an enhanced four-year-old that much sugar? He’d be fine.

Probably.

They each needed ten thousand calories a day, after all.

“What’s that, Daddy?” Bucky asked, sticking a metal finger into one of Steve’s belt loops and chewing on the end of his thumb.

“That is...we’re going to make chocolate chip cookie peanut butter and jelly ice cream sandwiches,” Steve proclaimed. Because that was a real thing that he definitely hadn’t just made up on the spot.

“Wow,” Bucky replied, his eyes going wide. He wasn’t the most excitable kid on earth because he got so easily overwhelmed, but Steve could always tell when he was in love with an idea by the expression on his face. “Can I help?”

“Sure, you can help me a lot, actually. But you have to promise me you won’t touch the oven, okay?”

“I promise,” he said solemnly.

As it turned out, chocolate chip cookies were harder to make than Steve remembered. Despite the fact that all he had to do was cut open the plastic encasing the dough and roll it into balls on a cookie sheet. Bucky was singularly unhelpful, as his contributions were more in the realm of eating the dough before Steve could do anything with it.

“Bucky,” he said sharply, as his kid shoved another spoonful of dough into his mouth.

Blue eyes immediately got teary, and Steve felt like a heel. Damn it.

“Sorry, Daddy.” And if that wasn’t the saddest little voice in the world, well, Steve didn’t know what was.

“It’s okay, Buck,” he reassured, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he pulled him close. “Just...the more you eat now, the less fun stuff we can make later. So I don’t want you to…” Bucky’s chin was quivering now, and Steve’s guilty conscience was growing. “Shit, pal, I’m messing this up.”

“Daddy…” Bucky gasped, the scandal of it shocking the teariness right out of him, a little grin on his face. “You swore.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Yup.”

“Are you going to tell your mother?”

“Yup.”

“What if I let you eat one more spoonful of the cookie dough?”

It was surprisingly easy to buy silence from a four-year-old. (Steve was pretty sure Bucky would tell Peggy anyway.)

The cookies took about thirty minutes to bake and cool, which gave them time to clean up the kitchen a bit. Because Steve hadn’t actually cleaned up after lunch. Or breakfast. He wasn’t great at the domestic stuff when Peggy was out of town. Then, the elaborate construction project began, which involved putting peanut butter on one cookie, jelly on another, and a scoop of ice cream in between. The two side were then squished together and squirted with whipped cream. They were, in point of fact, horrifically messy and far, far too sweet to actually be good.

Bucky ate four, as did Steve. They had grown up in the Depression, after all.

“Daddy,” Bucky said diplomatically, swallowing the last bite and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Those were pretty silly snacks.”

He had a point. Steve laughed, taking in Bucky’s sticky, disheveled appearance. “Yeah,” he agreed. “They were. You’re a mess, you know that?”

“I’m a mess,” Bucky agreed emphatically.

“Mmm,” Steve smiled. “You want a bath?”

Bucky considered, before nodding. Steve took that as a win since Bucky wasn’t always up to getting in the water when he was Little. It was a shame because giving him baths was one of the easiest ways to make him happy when he wanted them. He’d never shared exactly why he occasionally didn’t, and Steve and Peggy didn’t like to pry into the traumas of his past any more than was strictly necessary.

They trooped upstairs, Steve encouraging Bucky not to leave goopy handprints on the banister. (He did anyway.) The master bath had a nice, deep tub, and Steve set to work filling it with warm water while Bucky perched on the counter. Once he was satisfied the water was at a good temperature, he stood up to start helping Bucky out of his clothes.

“Arms up,” he instructed, pulling Bucky’s t-shirt up and over his head, tossing it into the hamper. It was funny, how easily he could compartmentalize. He loved Bucky when he was Big, found him to be the sexiest thing on the planet, in fact. (Well, dual-sexiest, thank you, Agent Carter.) The positively filthy things he wanted to do with him numbered in the tens of thousands, and that was just the stuff he’d thought of. Yet when Bucky was Little, those thoughts vanished completely. He knew there were people who did both, but it had never appealed to him, nor Peggy, nor Bucky. Their family dynamics, as it were, happened to be wholly separate from their sexual dynamics.

He wasn’t about to go to a shrink to figure out why, or anything, but it was interesting. That was all.

Pulling off Bucky’s socks, he couldn’t resist tickling the bottom of his feet, which made Bucky honest-to-God giggle. Smiling to himself, Steve stood him up and got him out of the rest of his clothes before helping him into the tub. “You want bubbles, kiddo?”

Bucky nodded. He’d been nonverbal since they’d gotten to the bathroom, but that was fine. It happened. He was still happy, and that was all Steve cared about.

The bubbles filled the tub soon after that, and Steve got him a few of the toys he liked. There was an elaborate bath game happening with battleships and rubber ducks, all silent, Bucky concentrating on his game as Steve worked to un-sticky him.

“Want me to wash your hair?” he asked. Bucky immediately shook his head, a frown marring his features. The potential for his head going under the water was apparently not on the table right then. “Sure, pal, that’s fine. We don’t have to.”

Half of playing with Bucky when he was Little was figuring out what particular triggers were going to affect him on any given day. From the outside, Steve supposed it might look exhausting. But when it was the person you loved, well, it didn’t feel that way. It felt right, because you were helping them and taking care of them, and maybe it wasn’t exactly like _actually_ parenting a child, but he couldn’t imagine it was far off, either. Bucky needed him and Peg the same way any kid would, after all, albeit not all day, every day.

(So maybe real parenting was more of a time commitment. That seemed legitimate.)

He came back to himself when he realized Bucky was looking at him with a curious expression on his face, as he’d been daydreaming instead of paying attention. “Sorry, Buck,” he murmured, smiling a little bit. “Got in my head for a second. You done in there?”

Nodding, Bucky started to stand up on his own. Steve let him do it, going to get the biggest, fluffiest towel they owned to wrap him up with. Towels were another thing the twenty-first century had made significant size increases to, along with portions and produce.

“Good boy,” Steve murmured, once he had him wrapped tight. Bucky made a happy humming noise in the back of his throat, and Steve couldn’t help smiling. Being alone wasn’t on the agenda, as Bucky stuck right with him as he drained the tub and rinsed it out with the hand-nozzle. He was most _definitely_ younger now than when they’d started.

Darkness had fallen while they’d been in the bathroom, and Steve knew Bucky had to be tired by the time they emerged. He hadn’t been sleeping well the past few nights, ever since Peggy had gone on her trip. He’d snatch twenty or thirty minutes, on and off, mostly sitting up and reading or writing in his journal while Steve slept. The insomnia worried Steve because he knew Bucky would fight sleep for weeks if he thought he might have nightmares.

Still. If he was Little, Steve had a fighting chance of getting him to really drift off.

Leading Bucky to the dresser, he pulled open the drawer that had their pajamas in it, letting Bucky pick out the pair he wanted. Peggy, in her infinite ability to craft exactly what was needed, had whipped up honest-to-God footie pajama onesies in various novelty fabrics she’d bought. She’d used a cheap, itchy one they’d found online to draft the pattern and had worked to make Bucky a few different options. That evening, Bucky picked out a flannel suit with foxes on it, and Steve got him dressed, doing up the buttons and trying not to focus on how alarmingly adorable he found Bucky in that getup. But there they were, and he did. The weirdness of their situation wasn’t lost on Steve, but the fact of the matter was that it was good for Bucky, so he tamped down any odd thoughts that crept into his brain. For his part, Bucky just liked anything that made him feel warm and safe.  

The clinginess wasn’t abating, nor was the talking coming back. Bucky followed him downstairs to get a couple of books, and Steve settled in on the sofa with him to read them, hoping he might be able to soothe him into sleepiness. It didn’t work. Bucky got distracted, pulled away, crawled over to the toy chest to get one of his cars instead.

Sighing, Steve pushed a hand through his hair and watched him. He didn’t even seem that interested in the damn car, it was just something to do to avoid the possibility of falling asleep.

So he tried again, moving from the couch to the floor and waving to get Bucky’s attention. “Hey, kid,” he said. “You sure you don’t want to read? Or we could watch a movie?”

The movie idea sent a flicker of interest across Bucky’s face, and Steve smiled, reaching for the remote. “Come over here, baby.” He opened his arms up, and Bucky moved in immediately. He was Little enough that Steve figured a quieter Disney movie would do the trick, so he settled on Mary Poppins. Because watching a competent, brunette, British woman effortlessly wrangle children was exactly what Steve wanted right then.

Sure enough, within about twenty minutes of watching, Bucky’s eyes started to droop, his head falling against Steve’s shoulder. Success!

Until a car horn on the street outside sounded and Bucky sat up with a shot.

God damn it.

He pushed away from Steve, just a little, rubbing his eyes and picking up his car again. The movie was still playing, and Bucky seemed intent on keeping himself awake through sheer force of will. Steve was officially out of ideas, and he crossed his arms over his chest. If Peggy were here, she’d know what to do.

It took him five minutes to realize that Peggy _could_ be there if he wanted her to be. Sometimes he forgot how close she was, even on the other side of the world, as he pulled his phone out of his pocket to text her.

 

_Got a sleepy guy here. Not letting me help._

 

It took a few minutes - Mary and Bert were hanging out with penguins by the time her text came through.

 

_What about the ‘things’ we bought?_

 

Oh, right. The things.

 

_Thanks, will try. Love you. Call you tomorrow._

 

 _Xoxo_ x2

 

Peggy was capable of saying a lot with a little.

The ‘things’ in question were something he and Peggy had discussed at length, based on Bucky’s oral fixation and the tendency he had to suck his thumb when he was stressed out or anxious. So they’d done a little research before placing an order for bottles and pacifiers that were meant for adults who were into being Little.

Really Little.

Much littler than Bucky usually went. But Steve figured none of this had _rules_ , and if his kid would go to sleep with a bottle, well, he wasn’t about to negate the possibility out of fear of Bucky getting upset. Bucky tended to shy away from what he considered ‘baby’ things when he was with other Littles, but at home, alone, with Steve the only person there to witness it? It was a thought.

So he got to his feet, relieved when Bucky only glanced up and didn’t try to follow him. “Just gettin’ something for you,” he murmured.

Peggy had stashed the supplies in what was considered ‘her’ closet in the basement, where Steve and Bucky didn’t go unless they were given express permission. Bringing everything upstairs, it took him a few minutes to warm up some milk and get things ready. His heart was thumping in his ears when he walked back into the living room, bottle in hand.

Bucky didn’t look up. Probably just as well.

He crossed to the couch and sat down, putting the bottle on the end table and focusing on the movie, waiting for Bucky to notice.

It took a while, Bucky scooting closer and closer until he could wrap an arm around Steve’s calf and stick his thumb in his mouth. That was a good sign. Steve smiled, reaching his hand down to play with Bucky’s hair.

Bucky, in turn, smiled a sleepy smile up at him around his thumb before his eyes caught on the bottle on the table. He froze, wary, and Steve was suddenly terrified he was going to pull him out of his Little headspace entirely with the surprise. Maybe he’d been wrong about it - maybe they both had been, and Bucky wasn’t going to like this at all. They’d surprised him with things before, usually to his delight, and he’d given them both permission to surprise him with stuff again. Still. This was a big leap of faith.

“Just...if you want it, Buck,” he offered. “Don’t have to.”

Bucky was silent for a long time, and Steve wanted to sink into the floor. Then, miraculously, Bucky used the hand that wasn’t currently in his mouth to haul himself up onto the couch and reach out for the bottle.

Joy in the damn morning.

“Sure,” Steve said quietly. “Here you go.”

Bucky took the bottle and examined it closely, more chewing on his thumb now than sucking on it. He seemed to be having some sort of serious inner conflict, and Steve wondered if there was still the possibility it could fall apart. Bucky waited a while before tentatively moving to lay his head in Steve’s lap, passing the bottle back to him and taking his thumb out of his mouth.

Oh. Steve wasn’t sure if Bucky could get any sweeter while he was Little, but this was taking the cake. He had been sure that if Bucky wanted the bottle at all, he’d want to feed himself. Apparently, he’d thought wrong. Carefully, he brought the bottle to Bucky’s lips and watched as he took it, getting used to the sensation, sucking on it tentatively. Steve was relieved to find he liked it, a blissed-out expression coming over his face almost immediately, his eyes fixed on Steve’s face as he drank.

“Look at that, huh?” Steve smiled. “Not so scary, honey.”

Bucky didn’t answer, of course, he just kept drinking, his gaze soft. Steve took a moment to pull the blanket off the back of the couch and drape it over him, using his other hand to hold the bottle in place. Bucky seemed content to let him do the work of keeping the bottle in place, shifting after a minute so he could continue watching the movie.

They stayed like that, Bucky working on his bottle, Steve marveling that it had worked. He watched as Bucky’s eyes began to droop again, and there was something terrifyingly and wonderfully intimate about feeding him that way. It hit Steve in a place he hadn’t known existed - someplace primal. Bucky was his to take care of, and Steve was tasked with the responsibility of giving him what he needed. The weight of that duty was staggering. It was different than anything he’d felt before while playing with Bucky when he was small, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to process the feeling. So he sat with it, overwhelmed by the love he felt for Bucky as he watched his eyes flutter shut. Bucky fought against it a few times, waking with a start, almost surprised that he was sleepy at all. Something about the rhythmic sucking on the bottle, though, calmed him and had him asleep before the Banks family flew their kites. Steve was sure Bucky was one hundred percent gone when the bottle fell from his lips. He quickly moved to set it on the table, then brought his hand to rest on Bucky’s shoulder instead, hardly daring to breathe for fear of waking him.

In the end, they both slept right there on the sofa. Steve woke up the next morning with a crick in his neck and Bucky’s head still in his lap. It was the worst night’s sleep he’d had in ages.

It had been worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Things I did not think this story was going to turn into when I started writing it: bottle feeding. 
> 
> Things I now see the appeal of after writing this story: bottle feeding.
> 
> Non-sexual ageplay gets you thinking about such _interesting_ things. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Yell at me on Tumblr: [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com) for fic/Stucky/Steggy/World War Threesome feelings.


End file.
